


homecoming

by tajemnica



Category: Heroes (TV 2006)
Genre: Age Difference, Brother/Brother Incest, Hand Jobs, M/M, Pre-Canon, dubiously artistic runon sentences, this fic brought to you by the year 2007
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-13 20:21:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29284470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tajemnica/pseuds/tajemnica
Summary: The first time it ever happened, it was Christmas Eve. Peter was fourteen and confused and Nathan walked in and it was humiliating. He almost tried to start to leave, but Peter bit his tongue till it bled—just a little—and shut his eyes tight, saying,no... stay.(in which the author breathes new life into an ancient fic for a new audience.)
Relationships: Nathan Petrelli/Peter Petrelli
Comments: 10
Kudos: 10
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 6





	homecoming

**Author's Note:**

  * For [urisarang](https://archiveofourown.org/users/urisarang/gifts).



> i'd been debating recently whether i ought to return to my brocon roots and post petrellicest on this account... and then i was looking through chocobox requests to do treats, and saw your heroes prompt for whumpy bottom peter and it felt like a sign.
> 
> suddenly i knew—there was at least one other person out there in the year of our lord 2021 who still cared about sweet fandom bicycle peter petrelli (and maybe even whatever weird shit he must have gotten up to with his big brother)!

A little less than vicious but nowhere near good, Peter still tears at himself, relentless, the pain doing more than anything else to finish him off. He feels sick and it's the night before Nathan leaves, again, off into the world without him like always, except this time, he is, too, and it just hurts so bad to think about.

They are closer as brothers than most boys ever are as lovers, despite everything. And there are plenty at Peter's school—he's seen them in the bathrooms, and the way they look at each other at their lockers, with fingers caught through belt-loops and lips just swollen enough. Nathan teases Peter about them, taunts him, always smirking.

All Peter knows is how jealous he is when he sees them, pressed up against water-fountains, grinding into one another during passing periods. _It's disgusting,_ Nathan says. _They're pathetic_. And then when he's at home, he leaves his bed at night, climbs in behind Peter and wraps his arms around him, hands tracing down his stomach, soft smooth skin and sliding into his pants. Peter bites his own hands to keep from moving too much, to keep quiet, because he's seen the way their mother looks at them, so blank and disappointed, on the mornings Peter comes downstairs first, looking red-eyed and exhausted, and Nathan has that crooked look of self-satisfaction that he never quite bothers to hide.

The first time it ever happened, it was Christmas Eve. Peter was fourteen and confused and Nathan walked in and it was humiliating. He almost tried to start to leave, but Peter bit his tongue till it bled—just a little—and shut his eyes tight, saying, _no... stay_. Nathan twisted his mouth, stained with liquor and pity and amusement, and continued through the door to Peter's bed. Glanced at him, eyebrows up, that smirk, and gently replaced Peter's hands with his own, steady and shatteringly slow until Peter shook all over, feverish chills, and then just stopped—let Peter carry himself over, spasming, collapsing into Nathan's warmth and yielding hands.

It was two weeks or more, a horrendously long and nerve-wracking two weeks—wherein Nathan's still home but goes out to bars every night and Peter sleeps way too much—before they ever mention it. Not that they mention it, exactly; it's just that Nathan finally looks at his brother again with a little more than fraternity in his eyes, and they're home without anybody else, and he's leaning against the same doorway. Peter's sitting crosslegged on the floor with an old comic book when Nathan says, "D'you want—?"

Peter flinches to look up, biting his lips. "Well, y—I guess, I mean," he stammers, and they both just sort of go silent.

It's all at once as good as the first time, and not quite, and better still. Nathan's just a little more careful, and Peter's just a little more tense, and they're both breathing so unbearably loud. It takes longer this time, leaving Peter too much time to think, exhaling through his mouth over and over and over again with Nathan just so close. It's all on purpose this time, full of devastating intention, and Nathan watches him carefully, watches the way his eyes move under his eyelids until Peter hits, his eyes fluttering open to crash into Nathan's.

It's one of those moments—those stupid, pathetic moments where Peter can hear the universe or something, and everything's exploding all around him—and he can hear Nathan's lungs moving and heart throbbing and then there's... this—

Peter leans in a tiny bit, because that's all it takes, and Nathan's already there, and their mouths collide, just a little bit open. He doesn't know what to do but Nathan's taking over, murmuring into Peter's mouth, biting gently at his lips.

They taste like each other and Nathan considers the probability that it's a lot like kissing himself, half his age. It's a strange thought that he doesn't ever share.

They don't really see each other enough for it to comes up too frequently; Nathan's still climbing the ladder while Peter skates wearily through high school. He's a good kid—never quite on par with Nathan's useless but unwavering Student Council post, but no delinquent.

He probably never crosses Nathan's mind until he's back during the holidays and long weekends, but Nathan can't really pretend to be surprised when he observes his little brother's furtive relationships with boys who look a little too much like caricatures of him. (Not that he'd ever mention it.) But he never precisely turns Peter down, either, when he gently swings the door open late at night, edges in on quiet bare feet and nuzzles his way into Nathan's arms. He presses his face into Nathan's neck, lips warm and smooth against the dull scrape of stubble and lets his hands wander idly.

It becomes habit, almost. As expected and reasonable as every other tradition of being at home—being together with the family, eating at the long, formal table where nobody talks. It's comfortable, almost. But at the same time, Peter can't ever control his shaking and writhing under Nathan's practiced hands, and Nathan can't ever quite give up the rush he gets from the look in Peter's eyes as he jolts and tremors to a stop.

* * *

Peter has graduated. He's newly eighteen, and Nathan's only here because Peter's packed up and moving out and Nathan's helping him move. He's scared shitless because, up until then, Nathan's always been coming home, returning to the house they've lived in together—with or without others in tow—but _home._ It lent them some sort of rationalization. Some sort of justification: it was part of their family; it was just what they did.

Nothing's changing, exactly; the only thing different is that now Peter will have to come home, too, but everything seems completely wrong. The innocence is leaving with Peter and his diploma. No longer can they pretend that—well, whatever it was they might have been pretending. There is no more accidental encounter, no more coincidence, no defense, but maybe Nathan just hasn't noticed yet. Maybe Peter's just going crazy and psyching himself out, and they'll go on as normal, but he doesn't think they will.

Now he's an adult, and Nathan's an adult, with all the stupid responsibilities and expectations that entails. Now there's a status quo of acceptance that he can't fuck up, when, up until now, there had always been one more reason that it was okay, one more excuse to keep going. But they can't hide behind anything anymore. And it's their last night together like it used to be. And Peter doesn't know where Nathan is, but that's alright, because he can't really deal with him right now—he's curled up on his clinically-dismantled bed and there are probably wet spots all over it from where his stupid eyes are dripping.

He won't ask Nathan for anything tonight. Best to leave fresh in their minds the last time, which was fine and normal, good as ever, just a few nights ago, before he'd realized what all this really, really meant. Peter's chewing his lip, half hoping it'll rip under his teeth when he shoves his hand unceremoniously between his legs. He's never gentle like Nathan because pleasure is something typically reserved for Nathan alone—it doesn't matter enough how it feels, when he's by himself.

He's fallen into no particular rhythm, braced, tense and crying for everything he thinks he's lost and losing when Nathan taps on the already opening door, privacy an afterthought between men who know each other inside and out. A stream of expletives pours out of Peter's mouth and he freezes, and angling himself to glance up at Nathan as he moves into the bare room.

The flow of wet and salt from Peter's eyes halts, and he's grateful for whatever remnants of dignity he feels like he might still be able to salvage in front of Nathan. Peter doesn't move, which is why Nathan eventually makes his way toward him, scooping him into his arms and pressing their lips anxiously together. Peter knows he should stop them, stop this, just stop, because he can't screw this up more—he was already in the process of throwing it away so he could learn to live like Nathan does, every time he's out of sight.

At the same time, Nathan refuses to let it rest, knows his brother needs him now more than he ever has yet, and holds him so tight, stroking his hair and his shoulders and his back. Peter works his face into the space between Nathan's neck and shoulder and breathes a little more quietly until Nathan's hand traces cautiously down toward Peter's unfinished endeavor, ignoring his empty protestations.

Nathan's hands slip under Peter's loosely hanging t-shirt and slide it over his arms, running his hands and then his mouth over the boy's chest as Peter clings to him, pulling him in. He is parted slowly and deliberately from the remainder of his clothing and Peter gives up on all his noblest intentions because trusting Nathan has given him every good thing so far. It's not like it can hurt any more now, not when Nathan is pressed to him, skin on frighteningly smooth skin, holding his wrists still and kissing him so staggeringly softly.

It is Nathan's last night here, and Peter's last night here. It's not that they won't come back, or even that this won't happen again—it might, they're thinking, as Peter nuzzles along Nathan's jawline, pleading quietly.

Maybe it means more now and maybe it doesn't. It's just another fact of their lives, when it comes down to it, as Peter arches into Nathan and Nathan's breathing hitches. 

And after, they fall asleep together for the first time, curled in on one another. Even if everything from this point on falls to pieces, they won't regret any of it.


End file.
